


Passing

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Episode: Retribution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William does what he can for Kennedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Lyra Sena for beta and to Skud for explaining how the clothes worked.

William observed the battle of wills going on in and above the next bed through half-closed eyes. There was no possibility of privacy, in an open-fronted cell with two sickbeds pushed conveniently close together, but neither was this the first time in his naval career that William had found it politic to feign sleep.

Clive had become oddly possessive of him and Kennedy in the last several days, insisting that they must not be subjected to sitting through the trial. The admiralty seemed to accept his medical opinion--on this matter, under these conditions--without question, an irony whose amusement had palled for William and Kennedy within the first day. They had not pointed it out to Hornblower during his daily allotted visits, and Buckland had not visited.

This morning, Clive had, in accordance with Kennedy's plan, brought down Kennedy's uniform. He had changed Kennedy's bandages, padding the wound well to protect it from the inevitable jostling which would occur, and Kennedy had, as he always did, endured Clive's ministrations in grim silence. They had now, however, arrived at an impasse.

Clive stood over the bed, dose of laudanum in hand, and Kennedy lay upon it, mouth resolutely shut. From the sound of it, he was not unclenching his teeth even when he periodically said, "No," lest the dose be forced upon him.

Finally, Clive heaved one of his sighs and said, "Then there is no more I can do for you, Lieutenant Kennedy," and quit the cell, slamming the barred door behind him with considerable vigor.

William lay still while Kennedy cursed, breathlessly and inventively, but at the first sound of motion from the next bed, he rolled onto his good side, all pretense gone. Kennedy had pushed the sheet back and was trying to get an arm under himself, and William snapped, "Lie _still_, lieutenant!"

Kennedy froze, glaring--how else but mutinously?--at William, and then settled back with his arms at his sides. "Aye, sir."

William pushed himself slowly upright, bracing against the dizziness that came of lying down so long and the throb of his own wound. When he could speak, he said, "He'll come back, Mr. Kennedy."

Kennedy's mouth was tight, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "He will come back, sir," he said, his voice thin and strained, but unwavering, "to tell me I am unfit to leave my bed."

William's own mouth hardened into a frown. Clive, with his damnable ambivalence, might well do that. The surgeon had not liked Kennedy's plan, though he had seemed to bow to it. "All right," William said, reaching for his own clean shirt, laid across the foot of the cot. "Then let me help." Kennedy met his eyes then, looking startled, and it was William's turn to glare. "Did you think I'd lie here and let you do it yourself, man?"

Kennedy twitched a small pale smile. "I suppose not. Sir."

William snorted as he got to his feet, then stood frozen until he'd marshaled enough control over his limbs to take the two steps to Kennedy's bedside, where his uniform was laid out on a chair. "You may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, Kennedy. Don't waste your breath sirring me now."

Kennedy smiled again and closed his eyes, seeming worn out already, and William allowed his face to betray his frustration for an unguarded instant. No officer who could do so little to protect his juniors deserved such shows of respect from them. It should have been his place, as second, to intervene on behalf of Hornblower and Kennedy--but as matters stood, there wasn't a thing he could do to help either of them except to do a valet's service for Kennedy. The clean shirt in his hand wasn't nearly as comforting a weapon as a pistol, but it was the only one suited to the conflict at hand.

"Here, raise your hands," he said softly, and steeled himself not to flinch from the sight of the effort it cost Kennedy to do even that. Kennedy's arms were wavering by the time William got the sleeves over them, and as he pulled the shirt down over Kennedy's head they dropped like stones. Kennedy gave him a wry smile when William got the collar past his face, and William returned it. Kennedy's good nature remained intact, then, however ragged his body.

The smile vanished as William slid a hand under Kennedy's back, preparatory to lifting him enough to tug his shirt down. In the instant before Kennedy closed his eyes, turning his face away, William could see how even that much jostling pained him. Clive had said that the bullet was still inside Kennedy's body somewhere; if it should shift into a position to cut one of the major vessels, Kennedy could die in a matter of moments. "If it hurts, it means you're not dead yet," William said quietly, because the fear had to be worse for Kennedy than the pain--fear that after everything, he would bleed and die before he could bring his scheme to fruition.

Kennedy nodded, but he didn't look back. William tugged the shirt down under him as quickly as he could, settling Kennedy back to the bed before smoothing the shirt down to his thighs.

Stockings next: William picked them up and went down to the end of the bed. His wound pulled as he took even those few steps, and he changed course at the last minute to sit beside Kennedy's feet instead of trying to stand and lean over them. He flipped the sheet back to expose Kennedy's bare feet, pale shins and knobby knees. Kennedy's left knee featured a half-healed scrape he'd picked up the day they blew up the Spanish fort; when they were all down in the ward room after, changing into dry clothes, he'd seen Kennedy pause for a moment in buttoning his cuffs to frown at it. Later on, while Hornblower reattached buttons to his second-best--now only--coat and William tried to decide whether there was any purpose in keeping the single shoe that had come out of the sea on his foot, he'd seen Kennedy mend the corresponding rent in his trousers.

William didn't allow himself to think about how that scrape would never heal, or to wonder what would become of the white trousers with the nearly-invisible mend in one knee. He slipped the stocking onto Kennedy's right foot; Kennedy's foot twitched under his hands, then went still.

_Ticklish_, William thought, smoothing the stocking up to Kennedy's knee. He'd never known that, though he'd thought he knew the man well enough. It wasn't the sort of thing one learned without touching another. They'd spent six months sharing a ward room, facing death shoulder-to-shoulder in battle; they'd spent six days sharing a sick room, facing death with a yard of empty space between them. Now his hands touched Kennedy's bare skin for the first time since William had met him, but a gulf widened between them: Kennedy went to face his death, while William's receded from him.

He was more careful with the second stocking, avoiding any touch on the sole of Kennedy's foot, easing it gently up over the scrape on Kennedy's knee. William sat still a moment--his breathing was quickening with the effort of staying upright, and the wound in his side pulled in concert, the dull throb brightening into a stab--and then pushed himself to his feet and picked up Kennedy's breeches.

He had to stand and bend for this. He braced his feet as though he stood on a rolling deck as he tucked the unbuttoned breeches over Kennedy's feet and upward. When William's hands reached his knees, Kennedy squirmed, trying to lift his legs and quickly failing, exhaling a sound as much startled as pained. "Easy there," William said, resting a hand unthinkingly on Kennedy's bare thigh as he turned to look him in the eye.

Kennedy looked down at his hand, and William deliberately kept it still, waiting for Kennedy's objection or another movement; were it him on the bed, he did not think he could lie still without an effort, and yet it was necessary. Kennedy lifted his chin and closed his eyes, and the tension in the muscle under William's hand dissipated, and William was staggered as much by Kennedy's trust as by the effort of standing bent over the bed. He dragged Kennedy's breeches up, lifting his legs as little as he could, but in the end he had to roll Kennedy half onto his side to manage it. Kennedy's breath stuttered and stopped as Kennedy's grasping hand caught the hem of William's shirt, tightening into a fist, knuckles pressed against William's thigh. William settled him back to the bed, hesitating while Kennedy coughed--but he didn't cough up blood, and the pallor of his face was the same feverish shade it had been before. After a moment, Kennedy opened his eyes and nodded, and William went on.

He tucked Kennedy's shirt in gingerly, trying to add as little as he might to Kennedy's pain. The bulky mass of bandages beneath the linen seemed to be still dry, and Kennedy took his hand away as William did up the buttons, letting his fist fall to the bed.

William had to sit, bracing himself against the bedframe, to help Kennedy sit up, wrapping one arm around the thin form and ignoring the pull of his own wound as he took Kennedy's weight. When he found the balance that let them lean against each other, he took a moment's rest. Kennedy's shoulder was solid against his, Kennedy's arm heavy across his shoulders, and both of them were panting, their breath rushing back and forth in the space between their bodies. Eventually Kennedy pushed away, and William sat back as well, keeping his hands on Kennedy's arms to steady him. William watched Kennedy's face, but Kennedy stared out through the bars.

"He won't like it," Kennedy said quietly.

The words hung in the air.

"He wouldn't ask it of you," William offered finally, at a loss.

Kennedy's smile flashed bright, and his eyes met William's, and for the instant before even that slight effort overwhelmed him, he could have been whole.

"I wouldn't do it for the sort of man who would. It would be--" Kennedy took a labored breath, coughed, and took another. "--a waste not to: it costs me nothing and saves him everything."

Kennedy was shaking with pain and exertion under William's supporting hand, and William did not like to think of how very much Hornblower was about to lose.

"Not nothing, Kennedy," he said softly, "and not everything."

"Archie," Kennedy corrected, a ghost of a smile passing through his eyes.

"Archie, then," William said, his gaze on Kennedy's face though Kennedy did not meet his eyes. He reached for Kennedy's waistcoat by way of forcing himself to look away.

Kennedy kept a small, fixed smile on his face as William buttoned up his waistcoat. He was as gentle as he could manage to be, but even fever-thinned as Kennedy was, the fit of the garment was snug over the bandages, and William's own hands were starting to shake. He could see sweat on Kennedy's forehead and lip by the time he'd done it up, and he reached quickly for the jacket, with a mind to getting the ordeal over quickly. He couldn't help noticing the yellowish rusty stain on the inside of the jacket--blood, and he wondered as he buttoned it up who'd tried so hard to get it properly clean.

William tied up his neckcloth with Kennedy's hand clutching his arm for balance, and then Kennedy was the very picture of a proper fourth lieutenant, albeit an unsteady one. He could be about to depart on his first long voyage, sailing into unknown waters.

"Rest a bit," William said, easing him back down to the cot, "I'll get your shoes on you."

Kennedy nodded slightly, eyes shut, his hands resting open on the sheets. The rise and fall of his chest was faint, but the early light flashed on his brightly-polished buttons, and William knew he still lived.

William made his way to the other end of the bed, Kennedy's well-shined shoes in his hand. He had his head down, bracing his knees and wrists against the bedstead for support, when Kennedy said, "He thinks it's up to him to protect me. He won't like me protecting him."

William looked up to see Kennedy's eyes on him, fever bright through golden lashes.

"But someone must," Kennedy finished. "I wouldn't--" his eyes fluttered closed and opened on a ragged breath. "I wouldn't ask for my own sake," Kennedy said earnestly, "but--will you stay with him? Will you look after him for me? He shouldn't be alone."

William looked down, wondering how to tell Kennedy that his own sake would have been more than enough reason to ask, as much as Hornblower's. Then too, William wished to demur--he couldn't be sure of keeping any promise he made in this--but then, he supposed that Kennedy would understand that. It was the promise, given now, that mattered, more than its execution in some future Kennedy would never see. "I'll do my best, Archie," he said, bracing Kennedy's foot against his thigh to push the shoe on.

Kennedy's eyes closed, but he smiled again, and said, "Thank you, William."

William smiled back, unseen but touched by the familiarity; when he'd got both of Kennedy's shoes on he knelt beside him, watching him at rest. Kennedy's hand caught his arm after a moment, and he said without opening his eyes, "I should be on my feet when they come for me. Help me stand."

Better himself than a Marine, William thought, so he helped swing Kennedy's feet around and levered him upright. Kennedy's arms went around William's shoulders, and for a moment his forehead pressed hot and damp against William's cheek, his breath puffing in short gasps against William's bare throat. "An hour," he breathed. "An hour and it won't matter whether it hurts."

William stood perfectly still and steady, and murmured, "Two hours, and it won't hurt."

Kennedy raised his head then, leaning back as much as he could in William's supporting hold, and smiled so that William couldn't regret the indelicacy of the remark. "Even better, then. Only I must ask--" Kennedy's gaze dropped from William's eyes, and then his mouth followed, his lips brushing lightly across William's. Kennedy pulled back just far enough to whisper in his ear, "Give that to him for me, if you think of it, later."

William freed one hand from holding Kennedy up to cup his cheek, and looked him in the eye. Kennedy looked back steadily, and William wondered whether he himself had ever had cause to be so brave as Kennedy was this morning. William slid his hand back to the nape of Kennedy's neck and closed his eyes as he kissed him, long enough to give Kennedy a moment's forgetfulness of all else. Then there were footsteps approaching down the corridor, and when William broke the kiss, Kennedy's eyes were bright with questions he would have no time to ask. William said softly, "From him, in advance," and Kennedy's eyes said it was answer enough.

William stepped back as Clive and the guards came nearer, so that when they came in view he was merely standing at Kennedy's side, holding his arm. Kennedy looked at William one last time, but said only, "You won't tell him where I've gone?"

William nodded, and Kennedy turned away and did not look back, walking stiffly but unsupported. William leaned against the bars, watching Kennedy until he was out of sight, and then stumbled back to his own cot and dropped to sit upon it, waiting for Hornblower.


End file.
